


Hiding the Rabbit

by RembrandtsWife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, John Watson/Mary Morstan - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Rabbits, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:05:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jim had seen her and Sherlock together. He knew she didn't count." When Sherlock returns, things are different to what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiding the Rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this on my friend J. and her rabbit Peter, a wild-born rabbit she rescued and raised. I also blame the laundromat, where the opening paragraph came to me. Sherlolly was pretty far down the list of things I thought I would write, but I enjoyed doing it. Doubtless this will be thoroughly Jossed, or Moftissed, in the next twelve months. Thanks to dietplainlite for beta and general encouragement.

Once when she was a girl, Molly had found a baby rabbit on her way home from school. It was tiny and blind and all alone, shivering in the late fall breeze. Even then she had understood what the traces of blood on the grass nearby meant; the tiny creature's mum, brothers, sisters were all gone, killed or run away. It had no one.

She had tucked the wee shivering thing into her jacket's deep pocket and taken it home. For some reason she hadn't wanted to tell dad about it. Instead she had hidden it in her room, made a warm nest for it in an old shoebox, and tried to give it food it could eat--lettuce, then small bits of carrot, then warm milk in a dish. The rabbit was too young, and she was too ignorant, and it had soon died. Then she went crying to her dad, showing him the little stiff brown thing. He had clucked his tongue and given her handkerchief and told her, gently, that she ought to have shown it to him right away, they could have got a book from the library and perhaps helped it better.

They had buried the baby rabbit under a bush in the park. Molly had not cried any more, but she had often thought of the bunny, of the difference between the live bunny, warm and trembling in her hands, and the dead bunny, so stiff and hard and unyielding. That had been the first slight inkling of the interest that would eventually lead to her career. Even today, sometimes when she approached a body, she thought of how gently her dad's large red hands had laid the baby rabbit in the earth, and hoped her hands would be as kind.

The knowledge of Sherlock Holmes, the knowledge that he was not dead, but alive, was a thing Molly Hooper held between her hands like the baby bunny. She kept it safe, and warm, and well fed. She warmed it with her hope that whatever he was trying to do in his strange exile, he was getting it done. She fed it with the bitter truth that his success, her safety both depended upon the illusion of her unimportance. Moriarty had targeted three people as leverage on Holmes: Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, the guardian of his home; D.I. Lestrade, the guardian of his work; and John Watson, the only true friend he appeared to have.

Jim had seen her and Sherlock together. He knew she didn't count.

In spite of Sherlock's words, in spite of all that she had done for him, with him, Molly knew she still didn't count, not really. It didn't bother her that John Watson, who had tried to be kind to her when Sherlock was at his worst, did not come to see her, had not been able to look out from within his own grief to see anyone else's. And she was grieving, grieving Sherlock's absence if not his death, grieving for his abandoned home and his abandoned friend and everything she knew he loved, because he probably had no opportunity to do it himself.

It did bother her that if, when, Sherlock succeeded and was able to come home, John would probably hate her and never want to have anything to do with her again, because she had helped with the deception that had hurt him so much. And it bothered her that she was a tiny bit pleased that Sherlock, dead only secretly not, was in some way hers, only hers, and that when he came back, he would once again belong to John Watson. She would once again be alone.

Jim Moriarty had not figured on Molly Hooper. Sherlock Holmes had not figured on Mary Morstan.

Sometimes on her day off she went to a little place near her flat and had a big breakfast. She went there one chilly Sunday morning and there he was, wrapped in layers of fleece and leather and smoking, in defiance of the posted signs. His eyes flicked toward the door as she came in, and though he did not give the slightest sign of interest, his eyes drew her irresistibly away from her usual spot at the counter to his table in the corner.

She sat down and the owner brought her coffee and a menu. Sherlock said nothing, and neither did Molly; she only looked at him. His hair was cut short and dyed a dark auburn. He was wearing glasses with copper-colored frames that were the wrong shape for his face. He could not disguise those distinctive hands, however, especially not while he was smoking. Molly noticed bruises on the knuckles of the hand that held his cigarette.

He allowed her to order and accepted a refill of coffee from Joe. He had the grace, at least, to stub out his cigarette when her food arrived.

"He doesn't need me," was the first thing he said.

Molly swallowed a big mouthful of egg. "Yes, he does. Did he hit you?"

"Yes." Sherlock looked over her head, at the out of date calendar on the wall.

She couldn't help but grin, hiding it behind her cup of coffee. "Did he hug you?"

"Eventually."

"Now what?" She was eating much too fast and tried to slow down.

Sherlock sniffed, drumming his fingers on the table in a way that made her think he was longing for another cigarette. "Mycroft kept 221B available for me. Mrs. Hudson was furious, of course, but she'd be happy to have me back. I just don't--"

The sentence was easy enough to finish. "You don't know if you want to live there without John?"

His silence was obviously assent. His nervous fingers began peeling back the layers of jackets and shirts, raking through hair that was much shorter than she had ever seen it. She finished her breakfast in silence and signalled for more coffee. To her surprise, Sherlock ordered eggs and bacon.

"I've got used to eating more regularly. Had to keep my strength up." It sounded like a complaint. Molly started to hide her smile and then wondered why. Sherlock looked at her, wide-eyed, direct, compelling as ever. But something was going on around the edges of his composure that she'd never seen before. It wasn't the same as the shattered calm she'd seen after the fall from Barts, when he'd barely been able to speak in complete sentences. She didn't know what was going on, but she wanted to know.

She nursed her coffee between chilled hands and watched him devour the eggs, bacon, and toast. Seeing his mouth shiny with grease made her want to laugh. How many hours had she moaned over that amazing sensual mouth, and now she wanted to giggle at him. He wiped his lips fastidiously and favored her with a tiny smirk. Something had changed in the man, loosened up and started to flow.

His hand covering her wrist when she reached for her wallet startled her, stopped her. You always expected Sherlock to feel cool, like a mannequin, like the machine he pretended to be, but instead, he was warmer than average, as if he constantly ran a fever. "Molly--" His thumb stroked her wrist, and that startled her even more. "Might I stay with you for a few days?"

He had done that before he disappeared. Possibly she even had his kit stowed away somewhere. "Of course. But you're paying for breakfast, then."

He met her back at the flat a few hours later, carrying one suitcase and one garment bag. The bag proved to contain his Belstaff coat, retrieved from his brother's keeping. He pulled a pair of pyjamas from the suitcase, took them into the bathroom with him, and engaged in a lengthy shower, accompanied by occasional bursts of song. Molly tried to read Hilary Mantel, then ran into the loo to pee as soon as he emerged, only to find herself smothered in a cloud of vetiver-scented steam.

He was already asleep on the couch when she came back, his long body forming an S-shape like a serpent. She set about checking her cupboards to see if she had anything she could make for dinner to feed two.

When she woke Sherlock to offer the pasta and garlic bread, he was silent, almost sullen as he wolfed down two large helpings of the spaghetti and three of the bread. By the time she finished her own portion, more slowly, and cleared the table, he had awakened enough to recover some of his manners. "Thank you, Molly. That was just what I needed. Shall I make us coffee?"

She nodded assent and went digging amongst her CDs for some music that would please them both. Some Bach pieces ought to do it, she thought, but as soon as Sherlock brought the coffee, he turned straight to the player and stopped the disc. "I despise Gould," he said. The CD cases clicked as he flicked through them. "Just because Bach is so densely structured doesn't mean that his music is without heart. The emotion is contained within the structure, embedded in the structure. That is the point." 

He emphasized the final consonant of his speech and flourished a new CD. Unable to make out the details of the cover, Molly waited politely to hear it and was surprised that he had put on a jazz CD one of her ex-boyfriends had given her. An African-American woman began singing with a low, smooth, smoky voice.

"Jazz. Probably America's best contribution to the arts." He used the same definitive tone in which he had spoken of despising Gould. Then he flopped down on the sofa beside her, seemingly boneless, and groped for his coffee. 

Molly sipped from her cup and was surprised to find it done the way she liked, with sugar and plenty of milk. She sat primly, holding the warm cup with both hands and wondering what to say, until Sherlock sat up, pivoted on his bottom, and stretched out again with his head in her lap.

He said nothing, and neither did she, only shifted her cup to her left hand so she could stroke his hair with her right. He had done this after the suicide, begging for touch as mutely yet imperiously as a lap dog. His hair had been softer than any fur, thick and luxurious around her fingers. It was shorter now and felt dry, yet his face softened immediately. That softening, the slackening of the tension even in stillness that was so characteristic of him, made touching him irresistible.

Sherlock's eyes soon closed, and Molly took the opportunity to study his face. He looked younger with short hair, but it also exposed fine lines that hadn't been there before, a tiny scar behind one cheekbone close to the ear. Even with eyes closed, that keen searchlight gaze turned off, the man's face was arresting. Beautiful, really. That was the word she always used, though never out loud. The contrast between the large, mysteriously-colored eyes and their laser stare, between the sculpted cheekbones and high forehead and the wide, soft mouth, between the ambiguous gender of his pale skin and lush curls and the crisp, deep, masculine voice. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, who said that? Molly was not going to remember, because Sherlock's long lashes lifted; he caught her gaze, took hold of her stroking hand, and drew her wrist against his lips.

Molly felt a slight tremor run through her. His lips were dry but still very soft, and she knew he could feel the acceleration of her heartbeat, hear the catch in her breath though she tried to hide it. This, too, had happened after the suicide, though not like this. They had had sex, two, maybe three times, in the two days he had stayed with her before moving into a safehouse provided by Mycroft, and then, she thought, out of the UK. Had it been as long as two whole days? Maybe not. She had thought of it, after, as "having sex", not as making love, nor as fucking; it had been an exercise like eating and sleeping and putting an extra blanket on the bed, a sharing of resources for the relief of a simple need. He had needed first aid for cuts and bruises, food, a safe bed, and orgasm; she was his friend and she had been able to provide those things, so she did. The sex had not been terrible, for her, but neither had it been spectacular. It had sunk away into her memory as most things do, without leaving any imprint on her sexual fantasies.

But the desperate man who had just faked his own death with her help had not brushed his lips across her wrist like this, delicate and slow. He had not turned his head from side to side in her lap as if revelling in the softness of her flesh. He had not drawn her hand closer to press his lips into her palm and then turned his face so that her fingers trailed over his skin until they moved of their own volition and slid into his hair again.

Sherlock raised up as Molly bent forward. The angle was odd, far from optimal, yet the kiss was electric, as much a jolt to the belly as his lips on her wrist. She broke away, confused, almost frightened by the sharpness of her response, and that gave Sherlock a chance to sit up, turn round, and reverse their positions, drawing her across his lap and against his chest so that he could kiss her better.

He was, indeed, a very good kisser. His mouth occupied hers; her hands remained busy in his hair; and the hand that was not supporting her went roaming, stroking her thigh, finding the hem of her cardigan, undoing the buttons, and slipping up into her blouse to acquaint itself with the front closure of her bra.

She surfaced with a gasp, realizing that she was lying in Sherlock's arms with her tits half-bare and her back arched like a romance heroine. Was this feeling what those cover paintings were supposed to convey--the feeling that she could open herself up completely, turn herself inside out, expose everything, feel everything, and with this man, it would be all right? Despite the pleading of her nerve endings for more stimulation, she raised her head and frowned at him, not understanding, not certain.

Sherlock, to her chagrin, laughed, throwing his head back, letting her see his pale throat and feel the throbbing deep in his chest. Then he took her hand again and kissed it, knuckles, palm, the base of her thumb. "May I?" he said, head bowed, barely audible. "Please say yes."

"Yes," Molly said, thinking of her literary namesake, yes I will, yes. Sherlock chuckled and, with a soft grunt, got to his feet with Molly in his arms. She'd had no idea he was that strong. 

He carried her into the bedroom, every inch the romantic hero, then tripped over her bedroom slippers and toppled onto the bed with her ahead of him. Then it was all a flurry of laughing and clothes getting tossed away and warm, greedy hands and lips covering her breasts, caressing every inch of them before a nipple disappeared into his mouth.

Sherlock's laugh was a wonderful thing, deep and powerful; it shook his head and neck and chest and shoulders, it rippled through her where their bodies touched. And the pressure of his mouth on her breast, the low groan of satisfaction he made against her flesh, that was a wonderful thing, too, sending ripples down into her belly. His mouth was deliciously warm, and she was already wet for him, sometimes she had only to hear him talk to get wet, and when was he going to get his damned fingers down there and--oh....

He dropped kisses one by one, like the last drops of a rainshower, across her breasts and down her ribs, while his fingers glided through the river that had gathered between her thighs, between her folds. He made a noise like the purr of a very large cat, if cats so large could purr, and lifted his hand to suck one finger into his mouth. Molly felt herself gaping at the way his lips closed around that finger, sucking off the gleam of her juices; that mouth was positively obscene, there was really no other word. When he offered her a taste, she sucked at it greedily, eyes fluttering closed.

So she didn't see him slip away and lower his head, somehow didn't feel it, either, until his tongue was parting her folds like the fucking Red Sea and curling around her clit. She fairly shrieked at the first spike of orgasm, and that damned smug chuckle of Sherlock's quaked up through her cunt and made her swat at his head, then clutch as he opened her up and deduced everything important about her sexual responses.

In one brief lucid moment between orgasms, when Sherlock had come up for air and she'd managed to get her hand on his cock, she thought, He's making it up to me. Everything I did for him, and the bad sex we had, and all the horrible things he said, not thinking, now he's thinking, he's *feeling*, and this is to make it up to me. And she decided, as he slipped that lovely long cock into her and got one hand under her buttocks to press her up into him, her leg falling over his shoulder, she decided that she was actually quite all right with that.

She lost count of how many orgasms she'd had. It was possible that Sherlock came twice without pulling out, or she might have just been utterly stupefied. Even mediocre sex tended to have that effect on her, and this sex was superlative. After he withdrew, Sherlock rolled off the bed and ambled off to the bathroom, stripping off the condom she hadn't even asked him to wear. She was still mentally admiring the rear view when he came back and sat on the edge of the bed, to look at her almost shyly. 

"Well, come on, then, if you want to stay," she said, and lifted up the duvet.

He slithered in beside her, stretching out on his back. She didn't let herself hesitate, but draped herself over him, head on his chest, arm across his belly, one leg curled over his. His arms came around her at once, and he let out what might have been a contented sigh.

The room was dark except for a bit of light from the bathroom. Molly woke from a light doze when Sherlock took an exceptionally deep breath.

"Baker Street has two bedrooms."

She lay silent, listening.

"And there are excellent restaurants nearby. You know Mrs. Hudson already."

She allowed herself to stroke one hand down his chest.

"I'm not allergic to cats."

He probably knew that Toby had wandered off a few months after his suicide, never to return. She had not really been able to think about getting another cat; it would have been like... like getting another Sherlock, somehow. 

She turned her head so that her chin pressed into his chest and tried to make out his face in the dark. "Sherlock Holmes, are you asking me to move in with you?"

Silence. Then, almost hesitantly, "I'm just pointing out that I have a flat to share. It could be of mutual benefit to both of us."

Daring, she pressed a kiss to his warm skin. "People will think we're--you know."

She heard more than saw his smile. "That's what people thought about me and John. Only in that case, it wasn't true."

She laughed out loud in the darkness. Perhaps she could start telling people about all the baby rabbits she had hidden in her bedroom, after all.


End file.
